


Under the Boardwalk

by withoutaplease



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 12:13:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6374299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutaplease/pseuds/withoutaplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a series of mysterious disappearances hit a small resort town, reader doesn’t believe there’s anything supernatural going on until she finds herself in the middle of her very own monster movie.  Fortunately, Sam appears to save the day, and to thank him, she takes him on a date to the beach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Boardwalk

**Author's Note:**

> This is my 30 First Dates with Sam Winchester entry - "A Day at the Beach"

You’re checking the weather forecast on your laptop for the third time this morning - still sunny, still hot - when you hear three gentle raps on your door, and your stomach does a backflip. “Just a minute!” you shout, jumping up and checking yourself out again in the closet mirror.  You adjust the strap of your navy blue sundress to hide the hot pink bikini underneath, and slide your feet into your favourite sandals. Then you take a deep breath, smile reassuringly at your reflection, and hurry to answer the door.

All thoughts you might have had of playing it cool disappear when you open the door and see him standing there, scrubbed clean and smiling brilliantly.  “Hi, Sam,” you say, feeling your own smile spreading across your face.

“Good morning,” he replies, “How are you feeling today? How’s your leg?”

“Totally fine, there’s barely a bruise,” you answer, turning your calf from side to side to demonstrate. “Come in for a sec?” you say, moving aside to give him space.  He steps into your room, ducking his head to clear the low attic doorway, and pushes the door closed behind him.

“I didn’t realize it would be so hot,” he says, unbuttoning his outer shirt and wiping his arm across his forehead where sweat is already beading.

“It normally isn’t at this time of year, but it'll be cooler when we get down to the beach,” you say, trying not to stare, as you pack the last few items into your beach bag. “How was it in your room last night? Not too hot to sleep, I hope?”

“No, it was perfect,” he answers. “My brother’s still dead to the world in there. Thanks again for letting us stay.”

“It’s the least I could do, really. You saved my life last night.  Probably my business, too.”

“I’m sure you could have handled yourself,” he demurs, taking the beach bag out of your hand and slinging it over his own shoulder.

“Maybe,” you say, grabbing your sunglasses and keys, then opening the door and letting Sam out ahead of you. “But I think I do enough of that as it is.”

As soon as the words are out of your mouth, you realize how they sound, and you blush as Sam stops on the stairs and looks back at you, laughing. “I did _not_ mean it like that,” you stammer, waving your free hand in front of you as if you could clear away the awkwardness.. He’s still grinning when he catches your hand in his.

“I know what you meant,” he says, bemused. Standing a few steps below you, he’s at eye level, and before you can think of something else to say, he leans in to kiss you. It’s soft, and unhurried, and he tastes of coffee and mint toothpaste. You’re sure you’re blushing even harder, if such a thing is possible, and you’re suddenly a little unsteady on your feet.

“What was that for?” you ask, grinning, when he pulls away.

“You seem a little nervous,” he replies, without letting go of your hand. “I thought it might help to get that out of the way.”  Aside from the bongo drum currently beating in your chest, he’s right. “Come on,” he says, starting down the stairs again with you in tow, “I was promised the beach, and I intend to collect.”

It’s your sister’s day to work the front desk, and she looks up from her phone long enough to see the giddy grin on your face and give you a suggestive wink before you and Sam step out of the lobby and onto the boardwalk. It’s nearly deserted, and as you stroll hand-in-hand along the waterfront, you feel like you’re floating.

*****

You’d spent every summer for as long as you could remember at the little seaside Bed and Breakfast that your parents bought as an investment, and when they retired to Costa Rica a few years ago, you and your sister bought them out and decided to live there year-round. The town was quaint and quiet two-thirds of the year, offering stunning ocean views and all the free time you could stand. The remaining third was tourist season, when the town’s population usually quadrupled, and business at the B&B was booming.  At least, it was until this year, when a string of unexplained disappearances began in late May and continued through the summer, and numbers plummeted. Those who stuck it out whispered rumours of late night drownings and unearthly sounds coming from just off the coast, and after a few too many beverages, some went as far as to pin the blame on a monster, “like _20 000 Leagues Under the Sea._ ” It was beyond ridiculous, but it was enough to keep the tourists away.

It wasn’t enough to keep you away, and you carried on your habit of frequent moonlight swimming entirely without incident, right up until one unseasonably hot night in late September - last night. The water was calm and as warm as bathwater, and if there was an upside to the drop in visitors, it was that there were no drunken revellers around to disturb your peace. All you could hear was the gentle swish of the waves around you, and the hum of a single motor from a boat off in the distance.  When you first felt something soft and slimy brush against your feet, you assumed it was seaweed.  Only, seaweed didn’t coil itself around your leg that way, as if it was intentional. Seaweed didn’t tighten its grip to a bruising strength in the span of a second. And seaweed certainly didn’t drag you further out to sea, shrieking and sputtering, while you struggled to keep your head above water.

You didn’t know the boat was there until it was practically on top of you, the shouting voices of its occupants unintelligible amidst your own splashing and coughing.  Saltwater was burning your nose and throat, and you were beginning to tire against the slow but relentless pull of whatever it was that grabbed you.  Your vision was beginning to dim when the thing (tentacle?) wrapped around your leg let go all at once, seeming to disappear entirely, and then you were being held up above water by a strong arm wrapped around you.  You were vaguely aware of another pair of hands pulling you up into a boat, and then nothing at all as you fell into a faint.

You were first aware of their voices as you started to come to.  There were two of them, and they were arguing.

“A _harpoon_ , Dean? Are you out of your mind? You could’ve hit her! Or me!”

“But I didn’t! I hit Ursula the Sea Bitch, and I saved both your asses.”

“It was an octopus, and I had a knife.”

“Then why did it melt into a puddle of black goo?”

“Okay, so it was some kind of mythological octopus.  You still didn’t have to use the harpoon gun.”

“Uh-huh.  You’ve got some Ursula in your hair.”

You tried to laugh, but it caught in your throat, and you woke up coughing and sputtering as burning seawater worked its way out of your lungs.  Your eyes burned, too, but you squinted them open anyway to get a look at your rescuers.  The one with the longer, dripping-wet hair moved over to help you sit up, and the dry one with the short hair took off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders.  “What happened?” you asked, voice rough and throat raw.

“I’m Officer Hutchence,” said Short Hair, “and this is Officer Farriss.  We’re with the Coast Guard, and you’re very lucky we happened along.  Looks like you were caught in a riptide.  What were you doing out here alone?”

“Are you okay?” Farriss added, taking your face in both hands and looking you over carefully.  You immediately noticed two things about him:  one, he was gorgeous, and two, he stunk like rotten fish.  You realized, with some dismay, that you stunk, too.

“I think so,” you answered.  You were starting to get your bearings, and as you looked at the two men, and around at the boat, you realized something was fishy, aside from the smell.  “You said you’re with the Coast Guard?” you asked, frowning.

“That’s right,” Hutchence said.  “We’re gonna get you home.”

“I don’t want to sound ungrateful,” you said, pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders, and looking at Farriss, “but if it was just a riptide, why are we covered in black gunk?”  Before he could answer, you continued, now looking at Hutchence, “And if you’re really Coast Guard, why did you steal my fishing boat?”

They looked at each other for a moment. “Ma’am, we didn’t _steal_ it,” Hutchence said, dismissively, “we _commandeered_ it.”

You eyed him dubiously. “For what, exactly?”

“Classified,” Farris said, and Hutchence nodded.

“Right . . . well, how about some ID?”

Hutchence scoffed. “We just saved your life here, lady, what’s with the third degree?”

“Dean,” Farriss said, “we should just tell her. She’s not stupid, and I’d really like to get out of here and change my clothes.”

Dean threw his hands up. “Whatever,” he said.  He turned back toward the steering wheel, and you heard him muttering, “I don’t know why we even bother with secret identities,” as he started up the engine.

Farriss chuckled and turned his attention back to you. “I’m Sam,” he said. “That’s my brother Dean. We were out here to kill the thing that grabbed you. I’m sorry about the boat - we didn’t think anyone would miss it.”

“If you’d picked any other boat, you’d probably be right. This place has been a ghost town all summer since people started disappearing in the water. I guess that problem’s solved now.”

“Hopefully,” Sam said, smiling softly and holding your gaze a moment too long.

You fell into silence as Dean sped the boat back to the dock, but every time you glanced over, you caught Sam looking at you. When you were moored, and Sam had helped you up onto the dock, you decided you owed them more than just a _thank you_ for the rescue. If you were being honest with yourself, you also wanted an excuse to see Sam again, and you thought, maybe, he might feel the same way. The inn was empty anyway, and he was in dire need of a shower, so you invited them to stay the night. They accepted eagerly.

Dean flopped onto his bed the moment you showed it to him. Sam walked with you up to your attic apartment. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked gently, placing his hand on your shoulder and looking you up and down.

“I’ll be fine, I just need to bathe for an hour or two,” you said, and he nodded, smiling, not moving his hand. “Thank you again,” you added.

“I’m glad I was there,” he said, and he hesitated for a second, like he was about to say something else. Then, as though he thought better of it, he let go of your arm and started toward the stairs.

“Sam,” you said quickly, stopping him. He turned to look at you, waiting, and you felt your cheeks prickling and your heart pounding. “Um, if you’re sticking around tomorrow, did you maybe want to -”

“Yes,” he interrupted, “definitely.”

“. . . Go hang out at the beach?” you finished, laughing.

He laughed, too. “I’d love to,” he said.

“Come by around noon?” you asked.

“It’s a date,” he said, before he vanished down the stairs.

*****

“So, okay,” you say, after knocking back the last of your second pint of beer and starting to feel a bit of a buzz, “you travel around the country, impersonating _whatever_ , so that you can kill monsters, which are a real, actual thing. Correct?”

Sam chuckles and takes a quick look around. “Correct,” he agrees, quietly, “but we probably don’t need to every person on the beach about it.”

“Sorry!” you say in a stage-whisper, covering your mouth with both hands. You look around yourself, and aside from the lone waitress and the ponytailed, Hawaiian-shirted cook sitting on a barstool chatting with her, there is nobody else within earshot on the patio of the little beachside restaurant.  Nobody’s listening. “Just, that’s so crazy! Isn’t that super dangerous? And how do you make money? Is there like, a hunter’s union with group benefits or something?”

He laughs again, picking up your empty plate and stacking it on top of his own, leaving everything in a neat pile for the waitress to clear away. “Um, yes, it is dangerous, and no, there are no benefits, unless you count fishing the occasional pretty girl out of the water.”  You blush, for about the tenth time already today. “As far as money goes . . . I should probably plead the fifth.”

“Sorry,” you say again, “it’s none of my business anyway. I babble when I’m nervous.”  He reaches across the table and lays his hand over yours, dwarfing it.  “It just sounds really exciting, like a real life adventure . . . basically the opposite of my life,” you finish, smiling sheepishly.

“That’s one way of looking at it,” he says, his smile taking on a melancholy cast. “I have to tell you, though, from where I’m sitting, your life looks pretty sweet.  Just you, and your sister, and all this ocean. I could get used to this.”  He gazes out at the water, thoughtful, and rubs his thumb lightly along the side of your hand.

“Except for the disgusting squid monsters?” you ask.

He turns to face you again, mock-serious. “Oh, no, the squid monsters are essential. Obviously.”  You both laugh, and then the waitress comes over to clear your plate and bring you the bill.  Sam hands her a credit card, and you quirk an eyebrow at him, but say nothing.  “All right,” he says, scribbling a signature on the slip, “are we ready to do this?”

“I don’t know,” you reply, “lying around on the beach all afternoon? We might want to do some stretches first.”

He quirks an eyebrow but says nothing, then he gets up from the table and picks up your beach bag.  You stand and kick off your sandals, Sam pulls off his shoes and socks, and you head down the wooden steps of the patio onto the practically endless expanse of nearly deserted beach below.  The sand is already hot beneath your feet, and you relish the sensation of it squishing between your toes almost as much as you relish the way Sam’s reaching to hold your hand again.  “I thought you said it would be cooler by the water,” he says, once his fingers are entwined with yours, and you’ve trekked a couple hundred feet along the shore.

You shrug. “There’s usually a breeze,” you offer lamely.  “It’s been hot like this all September.  How about here?”  You stop walking at a patch of beach that looks pretty much identical to every other patch, far enough away from the handful of other sun-worshippers dotted along the shoreline that it’s more or less private.  

“You’re the expert,” he says, dropping the bag and his shoes, and helping you spread out the big beach blanket you packed. You bring out a couple of sodas, a little portable radio, and a bottle of sunscreen, and then, overcoming another momentary wave of bashfulness ( _stupid, really, he saw you in a swimsuit less than 24 hours ago - but it was dark, and it was different_ ), you pull off your sundress.  You glance over at Sam, and are gratified to find that he’s staring a bit, and biting back a grin. You blush for about the eleventh time today, but it’s nothing compared to the rush of blood that floods your cheeks (among other places) when he peels off his t-shirt and unbuttons his jeans.  You don’t even notice your jaw’s gone slack until he’s standing across the blanket from you in nothing but a pair of dark green swim trunks asking, bemusedly, “Something wrong?”

“Nope!” you answer, a little too loud, and a little too quickly.  “I’m good, everything’s good.  I’m just gonna lie down here right now.” He chuckles as you get down onto the blanket, belly-down and eyes averted.  Then he joins you, lying close enough that his arm is brushing your arm, and his leg is brushing your leg, and you find yourself wishing the heat hadn’t burned off your beer buzz quite so quickly.

“You might want to put on some sunscreen,” he whispers, leaning in close to your ear. “You’re looking a little red.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, mortified. You bury your head in your arms, your face burning.  He laughs good-naturedly and slings his arm over your back.

“I’m sorry!” he says, still laughing. “I can’t help it; you’re cute when you’re flustered.”  You groan into your arms, but his laugh is contagious.  “I’ll stop teasing you,” he says, “I promise.  Come back.”  He rubs your back, his touch gentle, until you lift your head a little and peek up at him.  “Hi,” he says, grinning.

“Hi,” you answer.

“Sorry I embarrassed you,” he says, and it’s genuine, despite the lingering amusement on his face.

You sigh. “It’s okay, it’s me, I get nervous and then I don’t know how to act and I don’t want to mess this up because I like you and . . . I’m gonna stop talking now. Hey, would you like some soda?”

“In a minute,” he says, and he leans in again, going straight for the kiss. It lasts long enough this time that you think to respond, parting your lips when his tongue presses for admission, sighing into his mouth when his teeth graze your lower lip. You’re breathless by the time he pulls away, but your nerves are quiet again. “You don’t have to act like anything,” he says, shifting slightly away from you and resting his chin on his forearms, relaxing. “I like you, too.”

*****

You’ve been lying in the sun around an hour half-chatting, half-dozing, when the breeze starts to pick up. It’s pleasant, at first, a cool relief from the hot sun beating down on you. Within minutes, though, the breeze turns into wind, and cool becomes cold, and your skin breaks out in goose bumps. You sit up, opening your eyes to see if the sun has disappeared behind a cloud. “Holy shit,” you mutter when you look up at the sky.

“What?” Sam says, squinting up at you, his voice thick with the beginnings of sleep.

“Look,” you say, nodding up at the wall of blue-black clouds rolling in from over the water at an alarming pace.  As if on cue, a few fat raindrops land cold on your skin.

“Should we run?” he asks, already starting to gather his clothes and stuff them into the beach bag.

“Great idea,” you confirm, following his lead and picking up your things while more and more raindrops scatter around you. By the time you have everything in the bag and the blanket picked up, it’s coming down steady.

“This way,” you shout, and you jog, shrieking, toward the boardwalk.  It’s pouring by the time you reach it, and when you stop beneath it to catch your breath, you’re both soaked.  “We might as well get comfortable,” you say, laying the blanket back out on the ground, listening to the rumble of thunder in the distance.

You both sit down again, sheltered from most of the wind and rain, but still, it’s cold. Sam sees that you’re shivering and moves to sit behind you, his chest pressed against your back, his arms wrapped around you. “You were right,” he says, “it is cooler by the water.”

You laugh through chattering teeth, but the places where your skin meets his are already warming up. You gaze out at the sea, now gray and churning, and see a few bright flashes of lightning. “I checked the weather a million times,” you say. “Sunny and hot, no chance of rain.”

“I don’t mind,” Sam says. He squeezes you a little tighter and rests his chin on the top of your head. “I like it down here. We’re finally alone.”

“It’s not exactly the beach day I had in mind,” you say apologetically, your trembling starting to subside as the storm goes on around you.

“Really,” he assures you, “I’m all right with it. In fact, I have a confession to make. I kind of hate sand.”

You laugh. “Seriously?” You feel him nodding against your head. “Is it because it’s coarse and rough and irritating, and it gets everywhere?”

It’s Sam’s turn to crack up. “Are you comparing me to Anakin Skywalker?”

“I mean, if the shoe fits . . .”

“Fine,” he says, huffing indignantly. “That movie was highly underrated anyway.  And it _does_ get everywhere.”

“All right,” you concede, still giggling. “You can choose where we go for our next date.”

“Next date?” he says.

You shrug, glad your face is hidden as you feel it flushing yet again. “If you want to,” you mumble softly.

He lifts his chin from the top of your head and pecks you on the cheek. “I want to,” he says, “as soon as I can.”

He drops his head and presses his lips into your shoulder, trailing soft, breathy kisses up along your neck.  You sigh and close your eyes, tilting your head to give better access, as another kind of shiver runs down your spine.  “Is this okay?” he murmurs into the shell of your ear, and you answer with a nod, and a happy, purring hum.

“What about this?” he asks, letting one of his hands travel down to palm your breast over your swimsuit. He finds your nipple, hard already from the cold, and brushes his thumb across it.

“Yeah,” you breathe, warm all over, the chill forgotten, as you arch your back into his touch.

“This?” he asks, his other hand sliding down your belly, the brush of his fingertips sending up shockwaves along the sensitive span of skin beneath your navel, until his hand comes to rest between your legs.  He gently presses your clit through the fabric, and you moan, high-pitched and quietly needy, as your head lolls back to rest on his shoulder.

“Yes,” you hiss, and it’s your last coherent thought before his hands and his lips and his tongue begin to unravel you, and you dissolve into panting and squirming against him while he holds you, steady as a rock.  Just as it starts to feel good - _really_ good, _almost there_ good - he moves his hands away. You whine in protest, and he smiles.

“Come here,” he says, leaning back onto his elbows and grinning up at you.  You turn around to face him, kneeling between his legs, and from here, the erection tenting the front of his swim trunks is very ( _impressively_ ) obvious.  You bite back the grin that pulls at your lips, and crawl up over top of him, no longer embarrassed at all to be caught staring at his physique along the way.  You sink down, and the moment your lips crash together, his fingers are unfastening your bikini top.  You sit up so that he can slip it off your arms, and the shift in weight brings you pressing right down onto his cock, nothing but two flimsy layers of material between you, the contact making you both moan.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, looking up at you admiringly and whispering your self-consciousness away before it can make you shy again.  You fall forward, nothing on your mind except the taste of his tongue as it slides against yours, and the press of his hips as he ruts up into you, and the grasping of his fingertips as they rake into your hair.  Then he hooks his thumb under your waistband, whispering “This okay?” between kisses, and, by way of response, you reach down to help him slip them down over your hips. You shiver again as the cool air hits your pussy, wet with your slick, reminding you how exposed you are, even hidden here under the boardwalk.

As if he read your mind, Sam grips you tightly with one arm, and rolls you over onto your back, shielding you from the cold, from view, from everything.  He smiles down at you when you reach to help him out of his shorts, biting his lip as he kicks them off his feet, and then he pauses, just resting there on top of you, his cock hard and heavy between your bodies.  You don’t even realize you’re trembling until he asks, “Are you still cold?”

“No,” you say, sweeping a stray lock of damp hair behind his ear.

He dips down to kiss you again, soft and undemanding.  “Still nervous?”

“Kind of,” you admit.

“We don’t have to,” he says, and you smile, because it’s that’s it, there.  That’s how you know you can trust him.  You shake your head.

“I want to,” you say.  “Really.  Really, really.”

He grins, all shining eyes and dimples, and your stomach’s doing gymnastics again. A tiny voice somewhere far back in your mind is saying _fuck, what have I gotten myself into_ , and it doesn’t matter, because you’re into it, and there’s no getting out now.  He reaches over your head into the beach bag where he stowed his clothes, and fishes a condom out of his pocket.  He tears the packet with his teeth, and gets up on his knees to roll it down onto his dick, and you wait, your heart slamming in your ears.  Then he’s sliding himself inside you, inch by satisfying inch, and you can’t remember how long it’s been, but when he’s fully hilted, you know it’s been worth the wait.

He groans low, from somewhere deep in his throat, and says, “God, you feel good.”  He grinds his hips, just a little, but enough that you feel the motion of his cock as you’re clenched around him, and the pressure of his pubic bone against your clit, and your answer comes out as a whimper.  Then you make no sound at all, because his lips are on yours again, kissing you deep and hard and breathless as he fucks you with long, slow strokes.  You thrust your hips up to meet him, and your fingernails dig into his shoulders, and there’s no thunder anymore, or rain, or crashing waves.  There’s only you, and Sam, and the white-hot charge of electricity that builds a little greater with every kiss, every thrust, every ounce of friction you’re creating with your bodies.  It builds, slowly, up and up until it’s so strong you’re thrumming with it, you’re going to short-circuit with it, and you tear your lips away from his with a sudden turn of your head because you need air, big lungfuls of it, so that you can scream.  And you do scream, because you come hard enough to see stars before your eyes, hard enough to hear the blood rush in your ears, hard enough to make him whisper, “Holy shit,” as you clamp down, again and again, around him.  

You’re just beginning to come down when he follows you over, grunting through gritted teeth, and you keep squeezing, feeling every twitch of his cock, until his hips are still and he lets his weight rest on top of you, his head nuzzling into the crook of your shoulder.  “That was . . .” he starts, but he’s panting, and his heart is speeding in his chest, pressed right next to where yours is, barely, beginning to slow down.

“Yeah,” you agree your voice hardly more than a whisper.  “It was.”

As you lie in Sam’s arms, catching your breath, you look up to see sharp slices of sunlight streaming down from between the boards. “Looks like it’s safe to come out,” you say. “Storm’s passed.”

Sam smiles over at you. “No hurry,” he says. “I told you, I like it down here.”  You lie in contented silence a few minutes longer, until it’s interrupted by the muffled buzzing of his phone. He reaches over to the heap of his jeans and digs the phone out of his pocket. “Sorry,” he says, looking at the screen. “It’s Dean, I’d better get it.”

You nod and nuzzle into his chest, letting your eyelids drift closed again as he takes the call. “Hey . . . Yeah, I’m with her right now . . . A familiar? What kind of witch keeps an octopus as a familiar? . . . Yeah, I guess we’ll have to . . . Okay, we’ll be there soon.” He puts down the phone and sighs.

“Let’s me guess, duty calls?” you ask, sitting up and looking around for your bikini bottoms.

Sam sits up, too, and hands you your top. “Looks like I’ll be sticking around a little longer than I thought.  Any townies you know strike you as the sea witch type?”

“Not off the top of my head,” you say, shaking the sand out of your swimsuit and starting to put it back on. “But if it means I get to keep you a little longer, I’ll try to help you figure it out.”

“Good,” he says, standing to pull his shorts back into place, and then reaching down to give you a hand up.  He smiles brilliantly. “Then it’s a date.”


End file.
